'You here,' he repeats, 'here at the grave of your child and'--with a slight pause 'mine. It is four years since I saw you last, and now to meet you like this.' No sound comes from the kneeling figure. 'Where is ... he?' Paul asks in a hoarse unnatural voice. 'Dead,' she whispers. 'Ah!' and he breathes a sigh of relief, 'so you always come here,' he says, repeating the little girl's words, and then remembering her. 'Good God!' he cries, 'that child! speak, Clotilde, tell me,' he bends forward and touches her almost roughly, 'for Heaven's sake, speak, and say she is not your child, but no! I would rather not hear it,' and overcome by a strong emotion, he turns towards the sea, while a tumult of passionate strife rends his very soul. Why had he saved the child. One minute more where she had been would be certain death, if he had only known who she was he would never have rescued her, and yet--and yet--what harm has the _child_ done, that he should wish for her death like this. Poor little innocent child, but who does she remind him of--not Clotilde, not that other, no it is Philippa she is like, what could it all mean. A little tug at his leg interrupts his train of thought, and he becomes aware that the child is standing at his side, his first impulse is to push her away roughly, but the little thing is looking up at him so gravely. 'Mummy says,' she begins, 'that she doesn't know who I is, I'se Baby, and got losted years ago, but Mummy loves me.' Paul returns quickly, 'Is this true?' he asks. 'Yes,' she replies slowly, 'quite true, I found her, and was never able to trace her parents; it is nearly three years ago now.' 'Three years, have you kept her,' he says, 'you! a woman with a past like yours, how--' 'Spare me! spare me!' she cries, 'have I not suffered enough, am I not suffering enough now, do not taunt me, I know well I deserve it; but I have always thought of you, as I saw you last, and your sad reproachful face has often stayed me from.... Last year, I thought I would go and seek you, I got as far as Brook Street, and there I saw you talking to a girl in a carriage, your back was turned to me, but I heard her say, "Poor woman, how ill she looks!" and I dared not speak to you; death was what I longed for, and I went to the river, but that girl's voice haunted me. "Poor woman," aye indeed! I _was_ to be pitied; I had done wrong, but I would try to atone--but why am I telling you all this, you who ought to hate and despise me, I who have ruined your life. Oh! my God! my God! have mercy--' And with a paroxysm of grief, she lays her head on the little green mound.